I
It was upon an evening in June--and a fine evening, full of theexquisite melancholy of summer in a city--that Edward Henry stoodbefore a window, drumming thereon as he had once, a less-experiencedman with hair slightly less grey, drummed on the table of the mightyand arrogant Slosson. The window was the window of the managerialroom of the Regent Theatre. And he could scarcely believe it--he couldscarcely believe that he was not in a dream--for the room was papered,carpeted and otherwise furnished. Only its electric light fittingswere somewhat hasty and provisional, and the white ceiling showed ahole and a bunch of wires--like the nerves of a hollow tooth--whenceone of Edward Henry's favourite chandeliers would ultimately depend.
The whole of the theatre was at least as far advanced towardscompletion as that room. A great deal of it was more advanced; forinstance, the auditorium, _foyer_, and bars, which were utterlyfinished, so far as anything ever is finished in a changing world.Wonders, marvels and miracles had been accomplished. Mr. Alloyd, inthe stress of the job, had even ceased to bring the Russian Balletinto his conversations. Mr. Alloyd, despite a growing tendency toprove to Edward Henry by authentic anecdote, about midnight, hisgeneral proposition that women as a sex treated him with shamefulunfairness, had gained the high esteem of Edward Henry as anarchitect. He had fulfilled his word about those properties of theauditorium which had to do with hearing and seeing--in so much thatthe auditorium was indeed unique in London. And he had taken carethat the Clerk of the Works took care that the builder did not give upheart in the race with time.
Moreover, he had maintained the peace with the terrible London CountyCouncil, all of whose inspecting departments seemed to have secretlydecided that the Regent Theatre should be opened, not in June asEdward Henry had decided, but at some vague future date towards themiddle of the century. Months earlier Edward Henry had ordained andannounced that the Regent Theatre should be inaugurated on a givendate in June, at the full height and splendour of the London season,and he had astounded the theatrical world by adhering through thickand thin to that date, and had thereby intensified his reputation asan eccentric; for the oldest inhabitant of that world could not recalla case in which the opening of a new theatre had not been promised forat least three widely different dates.
Edward Henry had now arrived at the eve of the dread date, and if hehad arrived there in comparative safety, with a reasonable prospect ofavoiding complete shame and disaster, he felt and he admitted thatthe credit was due as much to Mr. Alloyd as to himself. Which onlyconfirmed an early impression of his that architects were queerpeople--rather like artists and poets in some ways, but with a basisof bricks and mortar to them.
His own share in the enterprise of the Regent had in theory beenconfined to engaging the right people for the right tasks andsituations; and to signing cheques. He had depended chiefly upon Mr.Marrier, who, growing more radiant every day, had gradually developedinto a sort of chubby Napoleon, taking an immense delight in detailand in choosing minor hands at round-sum salaries on the spur of themoment. Mr. Marrier refused no call upon his energy. He was helpingCarlo Trent in the production and stage-management of the play. Hedried the tears of girlish neophytes at rehearsals. He helped tonumber the stalls. He showed a passionate interest in the tessellatedpavement of the entrance. He taught the managerial typewriting girlhow to make afternoon tea. He went to Hitchin to find a mediaevalchair required for the third act, and found it. In a word, he wasfully equal to the post of acting manager. He managed! He managedeverything and everybody except Edward Henry, and exceptthe press-agent, a functionary whose conviction of his ownindispensability and importance was so sincere that even Marriershared it and left him alone in his Bismarckian operations. Thepress-agent, who sang in musical comedy chorus at night, knew that ifthe Regent Theatre succeeded it would be his doing and his alone.
And yet Edward Henry, though he had delegated everything, had yetfound a vast amount of work to do; and was thereby exhausted. That waswhy he was drumming on the pane. That was why he was conscious ofa foolish desire to shove his fist through the pane. During theafternoon he had had two scenes with two representatives of theLibraries (so called because they deal in theatre-tickets and not inbooks) who had declined to take up any of his tickets in advance. Hehad commenced an action against a firm of bill-posters. He had settledan incipient strike in the 'limes' departments, originated by Mr.Cosmo Clark's views about lighting. He had dictated answers toseventy-nine letters of complaint from unknown people concerning thesupply of free seats for the first night. He had responded in thenegative to a request from a newspaper critic who, on the score thathe was deaf, wanted a copy of the play. He had replied finally to anofficial of the County Council about the smoke-trap over the stage.He had replied finally to another official of the County Council aboutthe electric sign. He had attended to a new curiosity on the part ofanother official of the County Council about the iron curtain. But hehad been almost rude to still another official of the County Councilabout the wiring of the electric light in the dressing-rooms. He hadbeen unmistakably and pleasurably rude in writing to Slossons abouttheir criticisms of the lock on the door of Lord Woldo's privateentrance to the theatre. Also he had arranged with the representativeof the Chief Commissioner of Police concerning the carriageregulations for "setting-down and taking-up."
And he had indeed had more than enough. His nerves, though he did notknow it, and would have scorned the imputation, were slowly givingway. Hence, really, the danger to the pane! Through the pane, in thedying light, he could see a cross-section of Shaftesbury Avenue, andan aged newspaper-lad leaning against a lamp-post and displaying aposter which spoke of Isabel Joy. Isabel Joy yet again! Thatlittle fact of itself contributed to his exasperation. He thought,considering the importance of the Regent Theatre and the salary he waspaying to his press-agent, that the newspapers ought to occupy theirpages solely with the metropolitan affairs of Edward Henry Machin. Butthe wretched Isabel had, as it were, got London by the throat. Shehad reached Chicago from the West, on her triumphant way home, andhad there contrived to be arrested, according to boast, but she wasexperiencing much more difficulty in emerging from the Chicago prisonthan in entering it. And the question was now becoming acute whetherthe emissary of the Militant Suffragettes would arrive back in Londonwithin the specified period of a hundred days. Naturally, London washolding its breath. London will keep calm during moderate crises--suchas a national strike or the agony of the House of Lords--but when thesupreme excitation is achieved London knows how to let itself go.
"If you please, Mr. Machin--"
He turned. It was his typewriter, Miss Lindop, a young girl of somethirty-five years, holding a tea-tray.
"But I've had my tea once!" he snapped.
"But you've not had your dinner, sir, and it's half-past eight!" shepleaded.
He had known this girl for less than a month, and he paid her fewershillings a week than the years of her age--and yet somehow she hadassumed a worshipping charge of him, based on the idea that he wasincapable of taking care of himself. To look at her appealing eyes onemight have thought that she would have died to ensure his welfare.
"And they want to see you about the linoleum for the gallery stairs,"she added timidly. "The County Council man says it must be taken up."
The linoleum for the gallery stairs! Something snapped in him. Healmost walked right through the young woman and the tea-tray.
"I'll linoleum them!" he bitterly exclaimed, and disappeared.